jeon jΟ
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lovestrippedbare) wrote2019-06-06 08:49 pm
lovestrippedbare) wrote2019-06-06 08:49 pm
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The hospital becomes less suffocating once Jungkook is moved out of critical care. The nurses have more time, now that patients aren't constantly coding around him, and there's something gentler about the way that they speak to him. Or maybe that's his imagination. The first nurses that took care of him weren't unkind — far from it — but there was a steeliness to their care, as though they felt it might impart some motivation to Jungkook himself.
In some ways, it feels like they did.
It only takes a day before the hospital gives Jungkook a wheelchair, releasing him from the confinement of being constantly trapped in bed. His mother is quick to make use of it, pushing him into the bathroom for a shower, scrubbing him despite his best protests. It's nothing she hasn't seen before, she insists, but something about it brings a heated flush to Jungkook's cheeks anyway as he sits, huddled on top of the stool carefully placed under the steady stream of water. Thankfully, she wears a bathing suit the entire time. And Jungkook has to admit, when he emerges clean save for the scraggly beard clinging to his chin, somehow he feels more human.
Food comes next. Jungkook's mother wheels him to the nearest CaffΓ© Bene in the hospital, where he lingers and closes his eyes, simply reveling in the scent of freshly ground beans. Five minutes is all she feels comfortable giving him — long enough for her to pick up her online order and wheel them back around — but there's a certain sense of normalcy as Jungkook's gaze skirts over the long queue of people, some in scrubs, others dressed in civilian wear. Friends and family, surely. His hands toy with the blanket draped over his knees, working at the fabric, stretching it.
It's too soon for Jungkook to be sharing her drink, but his mother gives him a sip nonetheless. Mocha with a shot of hazelnut syrup and extra whipped cream.
(He's sick to his stomach not five minutes later.)
They ease him back onto solid foods. Jello, popsicles, juk. After that, it's not long before he starts regaining his strength. Even the smallest of milestones feel like feats of Herculean strength. As soon as Jungkook manages to switch from wheelchair to toilet unaided, he kicks his mother out of the bathroom, takes so long of a shower that he swears he'll use up all of the hot water. (He doesn't, but his fingers end up pretty pruney.)
When he sleeps, Jungkook sweats enough to soak through the sheets. They tell him that he's still feverish, that it might be a good idea to slow down, but the thought of holding himself back is enough to make him feel claustrophobic. He still doesn't know exactly how many days he's been in the hospital, but he's nervous to find out. It can't be two years, at least. The scene outside the window still looks like late spring, and whenever the medication starts to wear, the pain is too fresh for Jungkook to believe he's been in the hospital for that long.
The nightmares persist as well; Jungkook tells no one. When his mother shakes him away, tells him that he's been tossing and turning, Jungkook excuses it by reminding her of the pain. He figures the two might be related, anyway.
His first visit with the physical therapist is the hardest. Even trying to brace weight on his legs, even trying to stretch them straight — all of it triggers enough pain that the sweat beads on Jungkook's brow. When he glances in the mirror, his face is as pale as a sheet.
They wheel him to the cafeteria afterwards, trying to temper the disappointment with some ice cream, as though he might be mollified as easily as a child. Jungkook smiles, promises that he'll be fine, that his mother will be coming to visit soon anyway. The nurses in the hospital are busy, juggling far too many tasks to pay any individual patient their undivided attention, so it's not long before he's on his own. He doesn't wait for his mother before he starts to wheel himself back in the direction of his room.
He makes it about halfway before he stops, just at the end of one of the hospital's longer corridors. His room is near the end of the hallway, down a stretch that would have taken him no more than a few seconds before, but now his arms are nearly shaking at the sight alone. It strikes him that he can't remember how long the hall was when the seven of them were here last, racing to get Jimin out of the hospital.
Jungkook bites on his lower lip, tilts his head down. His hands grip the wheels of the chair, and he starts to push — harder — faster — but even as he starts to hurtle down the length of the hall, it doesn't feel fast enough.
That's when he spots her. A thin girl, straggly hair tied back in a neat ponytail, one hand clasped tightly around the pole of an IV drip. She holds out a hand, and Jungkook scrambles to find the brakes on his chair. Fails to do so, but slides naturally to a stop in front of her anyway.
Her lips curl into a smile, and she lowers her hand, palm faced to the side.
"I'm Heejin."
In some ways, it feels like they did.
It only takes a day before the hospital gives Jungkook a wheelchair, releasing him from the confinement of being constantly trapped in bed. His mother is quick to make use of it, pushing him into the bathroom for a shower, scrubbing him despite his best protests. It's nothing she hasn't seen before, she insists, but something about it brings a heated flush to Jungkook's cheeks anyway as he sits, huddled on top of the stool carefully placed under the steady stream of water. Thankfully, she wears a bathing suit the entire time. And Jungkook has to admit, when he emerges clean save for the scraggly beard clinging to his chin, somehow he feels more human.
Food comes next. Jungkook's mother wheels him to the nearest CaffΓ© Bene in the hospital, where he lingers and closes his eyes, simply reveling in the scent of freshly ground beans. Five minutes is all she feels comfortable giving him — long enough for her to pick up her online order and wheel them back around — but there's a certain sense of normalcy as Jungkook's gaze skirts over the long queue of people, some in scrubs, others dressed in civilian wear. Friends and family, surely. His hands toy with the blanket draped over his knees, working at the fabric, stretching it.
It's too soon for Jungkook to be sharing her drink, but his mother gives him a sip nonetheless. Mocha with a shot of hazelnut syrup and extra whipped cream.
(He's sick to his stomach not five minutes later.)
They ease him back onto solid foods. Jello, popsicles, juk. After that, it's not long before he starts regaining his strength. Even the smallest of milestones feel like feats of Herculean strength. As soon as Jungkook manages to switch from wheelchair to toilet unaided, he kicks his mother out of the bathroom, takes so long of a shower that he swears he'll use up all of the hot water. (He doesn't, but his fingers end up pretty pruney.)
When he sleeps, Jungkook sweats enough to soak through the sheets. They tell him that he's still feverish, that it might be a good idea to slow down, but the thought of holding himself back is enough to make him feel claustrophobic. He still doesn't know exactly how many days he's been in the hospital, but he's nervous to find out. It can't be two years, at least. The scene outside the window still looks like late spring, and whenever the medication starts to wear, the pain is too fresh for Jungkook to believe he's been in the hospital for that long.
The nightmares persist as well; Jungkook tells no one. When his mother shakes him away, tells him that he's been tossing and turning, Jungkook excuses it by reminding her of the pain. He figures the two might be related, anyway.
His first visit with the physical therapist is the hardest. Even trying to brace weight on his legs, even trying to stretch them straight — all of it triggers enough pain that the sweat beads on Jungkook's brow. When he glances in the mirror, his face is as pale as a sheet.
They wheel him to the cafeteria afterwards, trying to temper the disappointment with some ice cream, as though he might be mollified as easily as a child. Jungkook smiles, promises that he'll be fine, that his mother will be coming to visit soon anyway. The nurses in the hospital are busy, juggling far too many tasks to pay any individual patient their undivided attention, so it's not long before he's on his own. He doesn't wait for his mother before he starts to wheel himself back in the direction of his room.
He makes it about halfway before he stops, just at the end of one of the hospital's longer corridors. His room is near the end of the hallway, down a stretch that would have taken him no more than a few seconds before, but now his arms are nearly shaking at the sight alone. It strikes him that he can't remember how long the hall was when the seven of them were here last, racing to get Jimin out of the hospital.
Jungkook bites on his lower lip, tilts his head down. His hands grip the wheels of the chair, and he starts to push — harder — faster — but even as he starts to hurtle down the length of the hall, it doesn't feel fast enough.
That's when he spots her. A thin girl, straggly hair tied back in a neat ponytail, one hand clasped tightly around the pole of an IV drip. She holds out a hand, and Jungkook scrambles to find the brakes on his chair. Fails to do so, but slides naturally to a stop in front of her anyway.
Her lips curl into a smile, and she lowers her hand, palm faced to the side.
"I'm Heejin."